


these ruins are our building ground

by Myrime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Maria and Howard Die, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective Steve Rogers, Rhodey's Parents Are the Best, Running Away, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, instead of making sensible life decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 17:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17105180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: It's 3am when Tony barges into Steve's favourite coffee shop and turns his life upside down. He yells for coffee the way others might call for help. The least he can do is be grateful when Steve decides to listen.- After his parents' death, Tony runs away without knowing where to go. Equally oblivious to what he is getting himself into, Steve decides to bring him home.





	these ruins are our building ground

The coffee shop is Steve’s favourite place in town, although it is nothing much to look at. There is no art on the walls, no music in the evenings. Instead, it is dingy and old and filled with too much plastic. But it is open 24 hours every day and the coffee is heavenly. For an insomniac like him, this is just like paradise. He is friendly with most of the staff and they know what to bring him based on how he looks when he comes in. Usually, he can spend hours in here without being disturbed.

Steve is behind on his coursework because he tends to be able to draw only at night, with fewer distraction to pull him away. With Christmas ahead of them there seems to be especially little time.

Everything is calmer at night, though. Looking out into the snow-covered darkness conveys an aura of peace missing in broad daylight, making his fingers move over the paper in front of him almost by themselves.

When the door crashes open, Steve flinches, ruining a perfectly fine line. He looks up angrily, just in time to see a young man storm in, accompanied by a cloud of snow and a somewhat manic expression on his face.

“Coffee,” the guy shouts loudly, as if the distance between the door and the counter were more than six feet, and if Ruth, the waitress, had not noticed him immediately. “The biggest pot you have.”

A glance at the clock tells Steve that it is 2:47 am. He should not judge the need for coffee at this time of night, but he definitely judges the brashness of the guy, the sheer volume of not only his voice but his every movement too,

Ruth lets her eyes wander over the newcomer, completely unimpressed by his smile, which is too wide to be charming. She has been busy with her calculus homework, Steve knows, and he would not appreciate being ripped out of that so rudely either.

“One pot of coffee coming up,” she finally promises, keeping her judgement to herself as she turns around to get to work.

“The biggest you have,” the stranger reminds her, then saunters off towards the back of the coffee shop, claiming one of the corner tables where one has a good view out of the windows.

Steve watches him as he walks past, finds several indications that this is indeed a maniac come to haunt their town. He is rather short, although he makes up for that by sheer presence. His steps are confident, if slightly faltering every few feet, like he has to remind himself of where he is and where he is going. There is what looks like an ugly burn on his right hand, and his fingers tap a nervous rhythm against his thigh. If not for his rudeness, Steve might have found him attractive, dark, wild hair, long lashes.

He slumps into a chair like a marionette with all its strings cut, all energy draining out of him. That, and the fact that Steve is not in the mood for conversation, save him from a lecture. Politeness is very important, but Steve cannot be an enforcer of justice all day long. He tried that when he was younger, and some of the bruises that earned him seem to linger still.

With a shake of his head, Steve turns back to his drawing, exchanging a smile with Ruth when she passes with the pot of coffee – which is _not_ their biggest, but she must have had mercy on the stranger, because it is not a regular one either.

The peace lasts only for five minutes, then Steve hears rustling in the corner.

“What are you drawing?” the kid calls over, not a trace of shame in his face when Steve briefly glares up at him.

This is his second most hated question, a close follow-up to _Why are you drawing in a coffee shop at 3 am?_ and followed by _Will you draw me?_ He likes talking about what he loves doing as much as the next guy, but he prefers technical questions – and people who are not a bother.

Steve does not answer, thinking the guy might understand that Steve is not interested in wasting his time on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him crane his neck, half-standing up from his seat to better sneak a look, acting fully clichéd.

When he remains quiet, Steve thinks he might be lucky for once, but then a figure appears at his side, and since Ruth and the stranger are the only other people in the coffee shop, it is rather obvious who has come to bother him.

“Wait,” the stranger says, “is that _me_?”

Irritated at the continued interruption, Steve wants to tell him to get lost. Since gaining an ‘unholy amount of muscle mass’ – as Clint describes it – Steve has found out that people are much more likely to listen to him. When he looks down at the paper in front of him, though, Steve realizes that the still life he was meant to practice, has somehow turned into the stranger’s face. How embarrassing.

“It’s therapy,” Steve remarks in a tone that is a warning and a dismissal both. “To keep my hands busy so I won’t be tempted to remove annoying things or people from the vicinity.”

He would not but the kid does not know that, and Steve really wants to be left alone right now. Sadly, something in his words must have been open for misinterpretation, because the kid takes it as an invitation to slide into the seat across from Steve, looking strangely eager.

From this close, it is also obvious how tired he is, making Steve wonder how much of his earlier energetic behaviour was desperation, how much a front.

“Talented _and_ funny,” the stranger says, fluttering his eyelashes in what might be a come-on but that looks simply ridiculous with the dark bags under his eyes. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Steve cannot help but snort in amusement. He almost asks whether that has ever worked before, but that is a question he can answer himself. There is a certain resignation stitched into the line of the kid’s shoulders, but anticipation in the angle of his neck. He knows this game, knows how to play it, but not, perhaps, how to win it – or even what there is to win.

“No, thanks,” Steve answers dryly and pointedly looks back down on his work. With resolute efficiency, he turns a page in his book to a new page so he can restart his practice. That is not enough to drive the stranger off, though.

“But I insists,” the kid says, again with that too bright smile. There is no substance behind it, only teeth and a tongue that will not hold still. “I haven’t talked to anyone interesting in ages.”

For a short moment, Steve wonders who counts as interesting in the kid’s world. It is maybe unfair to call him _kid_ in his head, because he cannot be that much younger than Steve himself, but his behaviour gets him sorted into the ‘child that is high on sugar’ category in Steve’s mind – together with Clint. Also, Steve does not want to ask for his name, lest he encourages more conversation.

Shrugging, Steve adopts a fake-apologetic expression and points at his paper. “I’m busy.”

“With drawing me,” the kid counters immediately, ignoring the blank page between them. “I know I’m distractingly handsome. I could posture for you while we talk.” He shifts his position, turns his face into the light, and does something to his face that really makes him look more attractive, more awake, more intense. Someone must have taught him how to do that, how to present his best side. Then he smiles again, and the effect is thoroughly ruined by the emotion pooling in his eyes, none of which are bright and happy. With a desperate edge to his voice, he adds, “You don’t even have to say much.”

Unable to help himself, Steve rolls his eyes. For a moment there, he would have almost given in, if only out of pity. The sheer arrogance of expecting Steve to sit still and listen while the guy rambles on, however, does a good job of erasing all sympathy.

“And you wonder why nobody wants to talk to you,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his lips. That is something he learned from Bucky.

“Wrong,” the kid pipes up with fake cheer. “Everybody wants to talk to me. They’re just boring.” Waving dismissively, he leans forward to take a peek at Steve’s coffee cup, exhaling loudly in frustration when he finds it empty.

His own pot was left behind at his table, which gives Steve hope that he will return there soon. Coffee had seemed to be important to him.

“And you’re so charming too.” Steve should have done the smart thing and gone back to ignoring the kid instead of encouraging him.

“Please,” the kid purrs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “If you wanted charming, you wouldn’t be _here_ at this time of night.”

Along with suddenly gaining authority, Steve’s popularity with other people has also increased exponentially since gaining weight and muscles, a fact he has still not fully understood or accepted. He finds it is especially uncomfortable when a kid that is obviously drunk on exhaustion – and a few other things like overflowing self-confidence – hits on him.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Steve emphasizes, feeling a growl build in his throat as his patience is running out. “ _That’s_ why I’m here.”

The kid does not notice any of that. Instead, he leans back with a grin. “Wrong again,” he says, almost cheering. “”Man, I hope you’re not a student or I’m sure you’re failing all your classes.” Mouth already open, Steve just manages to think better of what that is even supposed to mean. Then the guy perks up. “I could tutor you.”

This startles a laugh out of Steve, although he does his best to swallow it down quickly. “Thanks so much,” he says, careful not to choke on the insincerity. “But I’m managing on my own.”

Crossing his arms in front of him, the kid spends a moment scrutinizing Steve, before judging, “Barely.”

This is it, Steve thinks. He is going to get thrown out of his favourite coffee shop because he will manhandle this kid out of the building and bury him under a ton of snow so he cannot come back in. Although, glancing up at Ruth, who is not half as interested in her calculus sheet as in watching their drama unfold, he might also earn a life supply of free coffee for it.

“Can you please just go away,” Steve says instead of taking physical action, although it takes a lot of energy out of him.

“Nope,” the kid says promptly, without even an ounce of sympathy for Steve’s plight. “In fact, I think I’ll have another pot of coffee.”

Startled, Steve glances over at the larger-than-usual pot waiting on the corner table. “You already finished that?” he asks in morbid fascination. The coffee here _is_ good without question, but drinking it down like water speaks of a special kind of desperation.

The kid shrugs like there is nothing out of the ordinary to it. “It’s been at least four hours since my last cup.” That at least explains the manic energy even while he looks like he is going to drop dead from exhaustion any second now. “Withdrawal is a bitch. But you should know that.”

_Caffeine withdrawal_ , Steve thinks incredulously, wondering who taught that kid to drink coffee and whether or not they had his best interest in mind.

“Why would I know that?” he then asks, grinding it out between clenched teeth. He has somehow been appointed as a babysitter, and he does not like that at all, just as he does not like privileged, bratty kids thinking they own the world and can do whatever they want in it.

“Aren’t you artsy types all smoking something?” the kid counters nonchalantly. From the pitch of his voice it is unclear whether he means this as an insult or a compliment. “But, well, I don’t know any boring ones.”

An insult then. Or a challenge. It does not matter, Steve is done with this. “What do you want?” Too late he notices that this just prompts the guy into keeping up his annoying behaviour.

“Coffee and conversation,” the kid says cheekily, although there is true charm lurking beneath the cockiness. “And I’m sorely lacking one of those at the moment.”

Before Steve can tell him to get lost, thoroughly fed up, to find someone who is more willing to get talked at, the kid signals Ruth for another pot of coffee. He does so with a smile that looks downright innocent, maybe because she is in charge of the dark liquid he is apparently addicted to.

With an apologetic expression, Ruth gets to work, shrugging at Steve in a way that definitely says _Better you than me_. He cannot even resent her for it, for he would have loved to do the same.

“Now, tell me something, big guy,” the kid says, turning all of his attention back on Steve, who does not even try to be polite anymore.

It has been a long day, and Bucky is out working and Steve does not like being alone in their shared flat. All he wants is some quiet to work on his drawing and maybe get tired so he will be able to sleep at some point this night. Entertaining strangers who obviously do not have any perception of personal boundaries is curiously enough not something he enjoys doing.

“I don’t appreciate being assaulted in the middle of the night,” Steve says pointedly. Maybe _assaulted_ is too harsh a word, but he really wants to be alone instead of being besieged by this guy.

Alas, the kid completely misses his point. He does not even look like he does so on purpose. Straightening in his seat, he stares at Steve in interest. “You were assaulted?” he asks, like he cannot imagine anyone would dare go near someone of Steve’s stature without being invited to. “Shall we go tell that asshole off?” he continues, clearly excited at the prospect of doing _something_. “I mean, we could also report him.”

Setting his jaw and straightening his back, Steve looks directly at the kid, leaving no doubt that he is serious this time. “I mean _you_.”

“Oh.”

For some reason, that has the kid deflating, expression falling, shoulders dropping, the whole pitiful spiel. He shifts completely to the back of his chair, leaning away from Steve, although not in fear but something Steve cannot quite identify.

When Ruth comes towards them with the fresh pot of coffee, the kid waves her off, looking truly apologetic for the first time since coming in.

“Thank you,” he says in a small voice, “but I’ll take that at my table in the corner.” Then he turns back to Steve, face a curious mixture of miserable and blank. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. Have a good night.”

The thing is, Steve even believes him, although his head is still spinning from the sudden change from cocky to desolate. He says nothing as the kid gets up, which only seems to push him to hurry more. Eyes wide, the kid retreats back into his corner, mumbling apologies all the way.

Breathing deeply in relief at the sudden, blessed silence, Steve refuses to feel bad. His night is saved at last. He reciprocates Ruth’s confused look and then they shrug at each other and turn back towards their respective work.

Still, Steve cannot help but keep glancing towards the kid in the corner, taking in the way he sits slumped over his pot of coffee, looking lost. With difficulty, Steve manages to concentrate on his drawing – not the annoying kid’s face but his actual practice – right until the guy pulls out his phone and makes a call. He almost wants to yell at him that he should go outside but thinks he is better off not drawing his attention again. Also, he might call someone to pick him up, and then he would be out of their hair.

“Platypus,” the kid says. To give him credit, he is trying to be quiet. It is not his fault that Steve is cursed with rather good hearing and can therefore listen to every single word. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

Of course, this has to be a teary post-break up call or something. Steve really does not have the time or patience for that.

“I made sure you’ll get this in the morning and I’ll be gone by then.” The kid looks at the clock, sighing. “It’s actually three in the morning. I left right after – you know.”

Steve wonders whether he has ever been that young to make dramatic phone calls from a coffee shop in the middle of the night. Maybe it is emotional blackmail, maybe he just likes to make a scene.

“Please don’t worry,” the kid pleads, sounding like he already knows that is going to be ignored. “And don’t be angry either. I’ll take care of myself. I even drank some water today. Well,” he adjust sheepishly, tapping the rim of his coffee cup, “mostly water. With beans. I drank coffee.”

He must realize he is rambling, because he rubs at his eyes with his free hand and takes a deep breath. “You know me,” he says and that does not sound like it is a good thing. “I’ll be fine. Just, keep going to your classes, take some notes for me. I’ll come back, I promise. Just don’t tell Obie I called you.” Here, a real not of something more sinister than simple worry enters his voice. Fear, perhaps, actual dread.

“It’s not like he’d want to hear from you anyway. Inherited Dad’s lack of appreciation for you,” the kid scoffs. So this is some kind of relationship drama, after all, Steve thinks, wishing he could simply go back to his drawing instead of listening in.

“I’ll be fine,” the kid repeats, even less believable now. “I _am_ fine. I’m fine. Promise.” He looks up, sees Steve staring, and flinches, red colouring his cheeks. “Don’t call back, please. You’ll be angry and I can’t deal with that right now. I don’t know where I’ll be when you get this.” He laughs, a garbled sound. “Actually, I don’t know where I am right now either.”

The kid shrugs at himself, the motion looking mostly like he is trying to get rid of some feeling that has lodged itself somewhere inside him.

“I haven’t been ignoring your calls, all nine of them. I just can’t –” here, he interrupts himself, smirking hollowly. “I’m fine. I’ll try to come back.”

With that rather ominous ending, he hangs up, looking even more miserable than before. He puts his head down on his arms, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _I’m so stupid_ on repeat. Then he glares at his phone as if he could take back that voice mail simply by the force of his distaste.

His drawing completely forgotten, Steve looks and looks, trying to make sense of the kid. Despite himself, he cannot help but be concerned. That neither sounded nor looked like the annoying busybody calling loudly for coffee and harassing strangers the kid was just moments before.

Taking a deep breath, Steve makes a decision, hoping very much he is not going to regret this. He picks up his empty cup as he gets to his feet and marches over to the table in the corner. Glancing back, he sees Ruth rising her eyebrows at him, and he shrugs at her as if to say _What can you do?_

“So,” Steve says as he slides into a seat across from the kid, who looks up at him with apprehension. “What’s your story?”

The kid stares, searching for something in Steve’s face, although Steve could not say whether he finds it. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” Strangely enough, he sounds rather practiced at apologizing.

“You’re forgiven,” Steve says, utterly nonchalant. Without asking, he pours both of them fresh coffee from the new pot. “Now spill.”

After a long moment of being still, the kid pulls his coffee close, clutches it with hands that look like they desperately need to do something. “It’s nothing,” he says, and sounds like he at least believes himself, even if Steve is not convinced. “Annoying people is kind of my specialty. I’m really good at that.” Smirking, he adds, “One thing at least, right?”

That addition sounds like it is directed at someone else, someone who is not here but hangs over the kid’s shoulder constantly anyway.

“Who did you call?” Steve asks. If he can get that person on the line, he might be done with this rather quickly and go back to his own life. He has no interest in getting involved in anyone else’s drama, but he does not think it is a good idea either to leave the kid to his own devices right now.

“Are you spying on me now?” The kid looks strangely upset, like other people spying on him is a real possibility, or, more than that, has already happened to him. “I already promised I’m leaving you alone. Also, you’ve got a drawing of me for the police, if you wanna report me.”

“The police?” Maybe calling the kid’s attempt at conversation an assault had really pushed things too far, considering how much he seems to have taken it to heart. “Why would I – wait, are you a criminal or something?”

It does not seem terribly likely, although his clothes look expensive if not very well cared for. The mood swings could be explained by drugs, but maybe he is just a drama queen.

“No,” the kid draws that word out until it loses all meaning. He looks like he is truly thinking about Steve’s question, which does not bode well overall. “I mean, I’ve done some underage drinking, but that’s college for you.”

College, Steve thinks, and looks closer. He is calling him _kid_ in his head, because that is what he seems like, too young for the world. First semester. Perhaps, unable to cope with moving away from home. “How old are you?”

Immediately, the kid sits straighter, daring Steve to keep questioning him. “Old enough to drive and drink.” It is a lie, a bold-faced one at that. “I mean, obviously not together,” he continues, half-rambling again, “if you’re the kind to think that’s morally offensive.”

Steve scoffs, unamused. “Drunk driving kills people.”

At that, something in the guy’s face shifts, and Steve almost gets up again and leaves him there when he starts laughing. Something is off about the sound, though. That is not an amused laugh. It has a distinctly hysterical note to it, and then he looks like he is going to cry.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, beginning to get the feeling that this is not some typical college love story gone wrong. “What happened?”

The kid clutches his cup closer. “Nothing.” He seems used to that answer, wonders why Steve will not let it go. Taking a sip of his coffee, he seems surprised when Steve is still there, still waiting for an answer that is not an outright lie. “It’s just, my father was drunk. A lot,” he sighs, shrugs. “It’s normal. Most people don’t notice. Nobody cared when he drove anyway.”

Steve begins to get a bad feeling about this. He definitely takes note of the shift from past to present tense and back. “Where is your father now?”

Maybe he is running from his father, maybe he is used to putting on a brave face and being loud enough that no one wants to take a closer look at what is really going on. Clint is like that, sometimes, when he is tired enough to forget that he is save with them, that Natasha would kill anyone even looking like he is going to threaten him. Steve knows about coping mechanisms, one of the advantages of having a group of friends who are all damaged in one way or another.

“Drunk driving.” The kid grins hollowly, like a dead man showing off his teeth. Then, darker, he adds, “Got what he deserved, right?”

Steve does not know what to do. He is not Sam, he does not always know the right things to say at the right moment. He is not the therapist type.

“Where’s your mother, then?” he asks, knowing before the words have crossed his lips, that this is not the right question either.

“Dead.” The kid shrugs, although this time, at least, it looks like it hurts. “He killed her too.”

For a long moment, Steve is utterly speechless. “How old are you?” he asks again, suddenly desperate. The kid looks younger the closer Steve looks, but he said something about college, about taking notes in class. He belongs somewhere, even though he is on the run from something right now.

“Doesn’t matter, right?” The kid chuckles darkly, pouring more coffee into his cup as if it holds salvation. “I’m an orphan now.”

“What do you mean _now_? When –” Steve cannot finish his question, cannot be this indelicate, but the kid understands him anyway.

“Yesterday. Or, well, two days ago now,” he says bitterly. Then he starts laughing again, even more unhinged than the first time. “I’m the perfect case for a support group, don’t you think? Hey, my name’s Tony and my dad killed my mum, and all I got is a bad drinking habit and a godfather who doesn’t want me anymore.”

While Steve is still trying to make sense of the sudden abyss that has opened in front of him, the kid’s – _Tony’s_ – pupils dilate and his head is angled in a way like he is only waiting for someone to slip a noose around his neck. Steve asks the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Are you drunk?”

It would make sense. Steve almost _hopes_ he is, because otherwise he has some seriously messed up coping mechanisms; running off, drinking coffee and bothering strangers in the middle of the night. It is like he is asking for trouble, because trouble is what he knows and what will keep him from thinking too much.

Steve realizes he is thinking of the time after his mother died, how he himself had lost all orientation. Without Bucky, he might have never made it through any of that alive.

“Only wish I was,” Tony admits easily, with obvious regret. “Although that would be some kind of poetic justice shit. Obie would have a field day if I managed to off myself too.” He laughs, almost chokes on it, then shakes his head with regret. “But I promised Rhodey.”

Seeing a possible silver lining, Steve latches onto that. “Who’s Rhodey?”

“Best friend,” the kid explains with real fondness in his voice, looking at the snow outside almost with longing. Just as quickly, he turns back to being bitter. “The only one who ever got used to me and decided to stick around.”

Almost desperately, Steve wants to get that smile back, that fondness. “That’s who you just called?”

When he receives a nod, Steve is a tiny bit relieved. At least there is someone looking out for the kid, even though he seems to dodge the attempts at the moment.

“He’ll be worried,” Tony says, not quite managing a dismissing tone, “but he’s better off without me. They all are.”

That is the moment Steve shamefully thinks that it would have been so much easier had he not given into his conscience and stayed at his table, drawing his still life, and not trying to fix the world. He is not equipped to deal with grieving not-quite-kids with self-destructing tendencies and possible suicidal ideations.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Steve says, feeling the oozing inadequacy of these words spill out between them. But what else can he say?

“And how would you know that,” Tony asks, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. He glints up at Steve, looking both miserable but at the same as if it is now him wanting to be left alone.

“Well,” Steve tries for a cheerful tone, “he called you nine times, right?”

Shrugging, Tony amends, “Nine times today. I don’t deserve him.”

That puts a real smile on Steve’s face, despite the situation. “We never deserve the people who are the best for us.” He still cannot believe how he managed to find his group of friends. Or, going much farther back, what compelled Bucky to help the skinny, boring guy he was in school, getting in more fights than his failing health actually allowed.

“That’s deep,” the kid snarls, looking like he is ready to go on the attack. “Are you a philosopher or something?”

Sam has a calendar with inspirational quotes in his office – which is the cause for ceaseless mocking between them. Other than that, Steve is not one for philosophy but likes to tackle reality each day as it comes.

That has no place here, however, so Steve ignores the question and poses another one of his own instead. “Where are you going?”

Tony’s _I’ll try to come back_ does not really make him sound like someone who should really travel alone.

“So only you are allowed to play twenty questions?” Tony smiles humourlessly. “Don’t get your hopes up, honey. The will hasn’t been read yet, and I’m still convinced Dad disinherited me. He threatened it often enough.”

This sudden change in topic has Steve confused. Why would he care about the will of a dead man, even if he is currently feeling responsible for his son? Maybe Tony himself is afraid of being left with nothing, but that should not be his first priority right now.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Steve keeps going, not allowing himself to be side-tracked. “Like, right now? Because you look like you could need some sleep.” He does not want to sound so pleading but it happens anyway. The level of stubbornness Steve is used to dealing with on a daily basis is rather high, but he is at least familiar with his friends’ stories, knows which topics are safe and which he should avoid.

“I’m going – somewhere. I guess I’ll know when I’m there,” Tony says, not convincing anyone that he has even a semblance of a plan. Looking past Steve’s shoulder at something only he can see, he adds in an utterly flat voice, “Maybe I’ll wrap the car around a lamp post like my old man.”

The thing is, he sounds like he means it, like getting himself killed is truly an option he is considering.

“Tony,” Steve says and knows he has lost. That is the most basic rule: If you give something a name, you will have to keep it. Now that he called the kid Tony out loud, there is no way Steve can turn his back and simply walk away. “Let’s get you to a bed.”

Tony squints up at him, looking grim and still somehow managing a leer. “Didn’t think I’d be your type.” Again, there is an alarming amount of seriousness in his voice, as if he expects – and perhaps does not even terribly mind – Steve taking advantage of him in this state.

“You’re not,” Steve answers briskly, although that is a lie. If Tony were a little bit older and a whole lot less desperate, Steve could very easily picture himself falling for him. Then again, looking at his group of friends, he has a thing for lost causes. “I’m not propositioning you. You’re exhausted and in emotional distress.” Wondering why he even bothers with an explanation, he shakes his head and stops himself. “My roommate’s working the nightshift, so you can have his bed.”

His best hope is Bucky finding his need to be the knight in shining armour for some strange kid amusing. Otherwise, he will have a very grumpy best friend at his hands tomorrow morning.

“Artist, philosopher, psychiatrist and good Samaritan,” Tony drawls, although there is no heat in it anymore. Exhaustion seems to be taking over. “My, where did they bake you?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve answers dryly, then pulls the coffee pot away from Tony, who all but howls and clutches his cup close, careful not to spill any of the remaining liquid. “Now, let’s get you out of here.”

Looking up at Steve in hurt resentment, Tony asks, “What if I don’t want to?” Despite the question, he does not look like he will put up any kind of fight about it, which does not exactly speak for his self-preservation skills.

“Then I’ll have to ask Ruth to lock us in or call my friend, who’s a police officer, because I can’t let you drive off in the state you’re in.”

Natasha is not exactly a police officer, but she is _something_ and can certainly act with enough authority to fool a wide-eyed kid. Also, she does not need handcuffs to restrain someone.

Draining the last of his coffee, Tony slams the cup back onto the table, frowning at Steve like he simply cannot figure him out. “You’re a true mother hen, has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve rolls his eyes and waves at Ruth, who has followed their conversation with interest. “Only about everyone I know. Now, up you get.”

Sullenly, Tony gets to his feet, looking for all the world like he is going to keel right over again, but he steadies himself with a hand on the table top, then glares at Steve.

“All right, Prince Charming. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

When Tony wakes up the next morning he has a pounding headache and an irritated stomach like he has spent the whole weekend at some frat house party where no one called an end to the revelry. When he blinks his eyes open, that theory dissolves rather quickly, for he is still mostly clothed and lying alone in a single bed. Turning around, he cannot help but groan, wishing he could have remained longer in the blessed state of unconsciousness.

Upon seeing someone standing right in front of him, Tony flinches violently. He cannot quite say what he is afraid of, but he knows he does not want _someone_ to find him. He does not recognize the guy, though, tall and dark, glaring down at him.

“Stevie said to tell you there’s coffee.” The guy says roughly, then crosses his arms in front of him, apparently content to watch Tony struggle.

Tony has no idea who Stevie is, either, but the magic word has him managing to get his feet in working order, so he manages to get up out of the bed. Without saying a word, without actually even wondering where he is, he storms off in the vague direction the strange guy was pointing. Truth be told, waking up without orientation and stumbling from one mess into the other, is something Tony has quite an impressive amount of experience with.

“Morning, sunshine,” a gorgeous blonde – supposedly Steve – greets him in the kitchen, pushing a mug towards him without further comment. He seems vaguely familiar but ultimately uninteresting when presented with the choice between him and holy caffeine.

The more coffee Tony drinks, the more he remembers from the night before, the days before too, since opening the door to Obadiah’s grieving face telling him he is an orphan, the reporters camping out in front of his dorm at MIT, Rhodey plucking the bottle of something out of his hands.

He wishes his mind were a kinder place, one that would let him forget instead of taunting him with identic replicas of everything that has happened. Obadiah has all but forbidden for him to come and identify the bodies, so all Tony has is empty reassurances that they did not suffer and pictures of a car wreck someone leaked to the press.  

Once his need for coffee is satisfied for the moment, he looks up at the blonde, studies him the way he probably should have before he let himself be taken home by him. A healthy bedside manner is not in his repertoire, however.

“You picked me up last night,” Tony says, unsure how to go on. The morning after is not actually his favourite part of meeting new people.

The roommate appears in the kitchen, frown still prominent on his face. “The way he tells it, you first annoyed him, then told him your sob story, so he brought you home to sleep in my bed,” he recounts with a sarcastic lilt to the words. “Which is not appreciated, by the way.”

Steve shushes him, embarrassed. “Bucky!” he chides, doubtlessly getting ready to apologize to Tony – who actually prefers this rather cavalier manner to Steve’s kindness.

“Wait,” Tony pipes up, choosing to ignore Steve, “your name is _Bucky_?” He laughs, because that is easier than to face what they are doing here, what he might have blabbed out the night before.

“Something to say, _Anthony Edward_?” Bucky counters without hesitation, amused hardness in his tone.

Tony stills. He is reasonably sure he has told no one his full name. He hates Anthony. So they must have gone through his stuff, and therefore not only know his middle name and that he is seventeen, but also that he is a Stark. The only one left now.

Great way to ruin a not completely horrible morning. At least he got some coffee into him before he has to run. He realizes that is a rather low bar for success but he has learned early on to adjust his expectations.

“Yes, actually.” Tony scrambles to his feet, looks down at himself whether he is presentable enough to go outside. “Thanks for the bed, but I need to get going now.”

It does not come as much of a surprise when Bucky shifts his position so that the exit is blocked and Steve rises as well.

“You can’t drive,” Steve exclaims suddenly, sounding worried again.

Tony has known the guy for barely an hour the night before and already knows that his sense of right and wrong will be a problem. He was probably one of those kids who could never keep his mouth shut and got beat up for it a lot. Well, Tony has been there before, with the difference of him never having cared much for rules.

“I’m not drunk,” Tony emphasizes slowly, stomping down on his growing irritation. If he acts like a wanton child, they will never let him go. “I wasn’t drunk yesterday either. Between drinking myself to death and driving somewhere no one knows me, I took the lesser coward’s way out.”

That one is debatable, of course. Drinking was always Howard’s favourite vice. If Tony does not manage to hold his liquor, that is just more evidence of his inherent weakness. Running away from his duties, giving up on at least trying, that is the real shame.

Tony has also found out over the years that alcoholism is only societally accepted when it is done publically, in groups.

Something in Steve’s face darkens, although he does not demand an explanation for Tony’s comment. He is, in general, rather reluctant when it comes to discussing death or death-related jokes. “You’re seventeen and from New York,” he says slowly as if Tony does not know that. “You _can’t_ drive alone.”

“I live in Boston,” Tony says sullenly, not exactly seeing their point. Rules usually do not apply to him, because Howard gets what he wants and – but Howard is dead. And his mum – “I need to get back to MIT.”

He does not necessarily _want_ to, but he has classes to attend and Rhodey to appease. Obie promised he would take care of everything, Stark Industries and the funeral and making sure that Tony can go on living his life.

“You weren’t in such a hurry, yesterday,” Steve points out, clearly thinking about that voice mail he left Rhodey. Tony wonders if anyone ever told them they are far too nosy. It is not healthy, getting this invested in a stranger’s life, especially not his.

“Well, you said something about me needing sleep to see everything clearer, yes?” Tony says in a saccharine tone, wondering why they even bother. If they know who he is, they know _how_ he is, that he is a disaster of a human being, that the press has a field day with stories about him every other week. He is not someone to be saved, not by them nor anyone else.

Steve looks unimpressed by his argument. In fact, he sits back down, calmly pointing at Tony’s chair in an obvious attempt to return some civility to their conversation and make it seem less like they are facing off. Reluctantly, Tony follows suit, if only because the coffee comes within reach again that way.

“If we were to let you in your car right now, where would you go?” Steve asks, his tone gentle, almost coaxing.

Tony huffs, which is as clear an answer as they will get. _Not to MIT_. Things will get so much worse as soon as he returns there. Up until now, he was just the bratty billionaire’s son, being smarter than anyone else since he turned up there as a fourteen-year-old. If he has not been disinherited, he will be the billionaire himself, with even more people pounding for his favour or insight on SI’s projects. Stark Industries itself will steal a lot of his time, and Tony notes with grief that robotics will have to be set back for the moment, because SI is a weapons manufacturing company and _he had better stop being a sissy and do something worthwhile for once_. With how present he still is in Tony’s mind, it feels like dear old Howard will never leave him.

“Your buddy Rhodes called another twelve times since you fell asleep,” Bucky’s rough tone rips Tony out of his thoughts. It is hard to say what he thinks about this whole scenario – apart from distaste, of course.

“Please tell me you didn’t pick up,” Tony says, perfectly able to imagine how that conversation went and that it does not bode well for him. “Does privacy mean nothing to you?”

Steve, at least, has the decency to look slightly ashamed, even though it is only a perfunctory gesture, because the determination is his eyes tells Tony that he would do the same thing all over again.

Bucky, on the other hand, remains unapologetic. “Maybe we want to get the finder fee for runaway billionaires.”

Swallowing a bitter laugh, Tony refuses to explain that there are a lot of people who would be willing to pay to be rid of him, and a handful of others who would love to pick his brain. He just wants to stay clear of both sorts.

“I don’t think I even got anything,” he says, shrugging like he is completely indifferent to the result of the reading of Howard’s will. MIT will keep him on, if necessary even on a scholarship. And afterwards, he will find somewhere they will appreciate his ideas. If push came to shove, he could make something marketable out of Dum-E – a less personalized and chaotic version at least.

“The news says differently,” Bucky says, waving at a newspaper, which Steve quickly grabs with a glare at his friend, intent on letting it disappear before Tony can get his hands on it.

Too late, of course. He has already seen the damned picture of the crash site. Why do humans enjoy drama so much, as long as it happens to other people?

“And they are always to be believed,” Tony says dryly, pouring himself more coffee just to give his hands something to do. It would not do to let his two self-proclaimed protectors – or, well, one protector and his begrudging sidekick – notice that they are trembling.

That has Bucky narrowing his eyes at him. “You’re rather cynical for a kid.”

Again with the kid business. He is seventeen, not five. Even if he were five, he would probably still be smarter than the two of them combined. He can take care of himself, always has. And if he fails, no one will care much anyway, apart from perhaps Jarvis – who could finally retire in peace – and Rhodey – who could finally make real friends, unhindered by the burden of playing babysitter for Tony.

“Great,” Tony exclaims cheerfully, eager to get their blood pressure rising, “get annoyed by me. Throw me out. Just don’t forget to throw my phone and car keys after me. I’m dying to get out of your hair.”

Steve’s expression grows pinched. “I’d like to keep you from dying, if at all possible.” So he has noticed the increasing regularity with which Tony mentions death. What can he say, it is a youth thing, desolated by the world they are growing into.

“Congrats, kiddo,” Bucky comments dryly, finally coming fully into the room. “You activated Stevie’s mother bear mode. You’ll never get rid of him now.”

“All I wanted was to –” Tony falls abruptly silent. All he wanted was for the pain to stop, to forget the image of his mother, lifeless and gone, that has burned itself into his mind without ever having seen her body. He wanted to let go of the ghost of Howard, stomping around in his head, yelling at him to stop being such a disappointment, even now after he has died.

He wanted to get away from who he is and who he is supposed to be from now on. From Obie’s benevolent smiles and _I’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry, my boy_.

“Well, I did talk to Rhodes,” Steve announces, indefinitely sterner now, “and we’ve come to a decision.”

Rhodey was probably glad to talk to someone with principles, who would not buy Tony another round, maybe take him into their bed, and then send him on his way, just a little bit more out of his mind.

“Without asking me,” Tony says without inflection. It is not that he is not used to people deciding all kinds of things over his head – boarding school, MIT, what happens to his blueprints – but Rhodey has, up until now, always made a point of involving him.

Ignoring his objection, Steve lays out his alleged options. “Either he’s going to come pick you up here –”

“No,” Tony cuts him off, vetoing that immediately, “he’s got classes.” It is bad enough that Tony drags him down into his personal drama, he cannot affect his grades too.

Steve sighs but does not actually look surprised. “Well, then I’m going to drive you to Philadelphia to his parents, where the two of you will meet up, and he’ll make sure you won’t do anything stupid.”

That is such a bad idea, Tony does not even have any words to counter it. He has not yet spoken to Obie, but there is the annual Stark Christmas gala to think of, which his mother would be furious to see cancelled just because she is not there anymore to attend it. There will be press conferences and board meetings at Stark Industries. Life is going on, even if Tony does not particularly want it to, so he cannot hide away with the Rhodes family and let everything go to hell.

“Stupid is my middle name,” he says sullenly, fishing desperately for a way to cancel Rhodey’s plan without actually talking to him.

Bucky snorts from where he leans against the kitchen counter, looking progressively more amused by the scene evolving in front of his eyes. “I think we’ve already established it’s Edward.”

Absentmindedly, Tony flips him a finger, then glares back at Steve. “What if I refuse?” he asks, despite knowing that it will not be that easy to get out of this. “You’d be kidnapping me.”

That would not be the first time, of course, although the reasoning behind taking Tony is usually less benevolent that what Steve has in mind. Still, if he has not made completely wrong assessments of these two, Tony has definitely more experience with kidnappings than them. He knows better than to mention that, though, or they might never let him out of their sight again.

Without even a hint of mercy, Steve says, “You’re arguably not in the right state of mind to make any decisions right now. And as you’re a minor –”

“Stop reminding me of the fact that my parents are dead.” Tony had not wanted to shout, had not thought he would have the energy for it. But here he is, getting up on trembling legs, trying to tower over Steve the goody-two-shoes intent on helping him where all help is wasted, and his glowering friend, who looks like he would sooner murder Tony than go out of his way to do anything for him. Help in the loosest sense of the word, because Tony does not need them. He can make his own way, going wherever he wants to go. Losing his parents does not mean that he has lost his mind too. Although it almost feels like it, but he does not dare listen into himself too much, because that always either scares him or makes him yearn for the kind of quiet that is impossible to come back from.

“I’m sorry,” Steve predictably says, looking actually contrite. He gestures vaguely at the kitchen around them. “You’re welcome to get comfortable here until Rhodey arrives.”

Tony needs to be done with this argument now, to curl up somewhere, have a drink or five, and do his best to forget his own name and all the trouble that comes with it.

“I don’t want to get comfortable,” he bites out, “I want to get going.”

“Rhodey’s parents already know you’re coming,” Steve explains and is obviously ready to go on, but something in Tony’s expression stops him.

Tony feels all his protests die at that and he sinks back into his seat. All he can think of now are Roberta’s hugs and Terry’s stories, of how Tony had accidentally called Terry Dad once and got a wide, even proud smile for it. He thinks of their house, which is small but always had room enough for him. He thinks of care packages sent not only for Rhodey but for him too. He thinks of how they never expected anything in return, no money, no favours, not even the odd repair job around the house, although Tony did those anyway.

“Don’t you two have anything better to do with Christmas coming up?” Tony asks, although all of his arguments are purely ornamental now. With that opportunity opening up in front of him, he cannot think of ever wanting to go anywhere else but to Rhodey’s family.

“Yes,” Bucky growls at the same time as Steve says brightly, “No.” They stare at each other, having a whole conversation just by waggling their eyebrows and shifting their expression, until, finally, Bucky slumps.

“No, of course not,” he says, his tone oozing sarcasm. “Why would you think that?”

Caught in his own thoughts, Tony remarks, “Mrs. Rhodes makes the best fudge.” He does not realize how much that sounds like an offer to come and eat some until the words are already over his lips.

“You say that, but you haven’t tasted my mum’s fudge,” Bucky growls, still glaring at Steve, who looks impervious to it. “Which we were going to have. For Christmas. _Not_ in Philadelphia.”

This tells Tony quite a lot of things about his unexpected hosts. Either they are lovers and Bucky’s family has won this year’s rights to host Christmas, or Steve does not have anywhere else to go either. He does not want to get too invested in this, however, because right now they think of him as a duty, a burden to deliver into his friend’s safe hands, as to not be somehow blamed if Tony gets into trouble, possibly even the permanent kind. They will be gone, soon, and he will be left with the ruins of his life, trying to make the best of it.

“Is that an invitation?” Tony quips, thinking that, if he only gets back to his usual sassy self, pulls up his uncaring persona, he will stop hurting. It has worked for the longest time, with the additional assistance of liquor and other people’s beds.

“Definitely not,” Bucky refuses in such a heartfelt manner that Tony almost laughs.

In turn, Steve uses their momentary distractedness to make a decision for all of them. “Then it’s settled. We’re going to Philly,” he exclaims cheerfully, smiling like this is actually a matter of choice for any of them. Then, in a conciliatory manner, he looks at Bucky. “We have plenty of time to make it back to New York for Christmas. It’s not even that much of a detour.”

Both Tony and Bucky stare at Steve incredulously, but who is Tony to protest, now that he has found someone even crazier than him? He even feels a wave of pity for everyone who ever had to deal with any of his ‘great’ ideas.

Bucky clears his throat, managing to look confused as well as he does murderous. “Have I given even the slightest impression that I want to come with you?”

“It’s an adventure, Buck,” Steve counters immediately, likely having expected that argument. “And we always wanted to go on a road trip, yes?”

With a rather rude gesture a Tony, Bucky says, “Without a whining minor in need of babysitting.”

Tony realizes that he still likes Bucky, who is not afraid to call bullshit on stupid ideas and does not bother to mince his words, even though he does not agree with this particular choice of description for himself.

“Hey, I just lost my parents,” Tony pipes up thoughtlessly. “Be nice to me.”

Now Tony feels their incredulous stares on him. He cannot even resent them for it. His own words taste like ash on his tongue, but Howard screams in his mind that crying is for weaklings and Starks are not weak. The whole emotions business is not for people like them, actually, so he should suck it up and make sure not to ruin his legacy.

He _is_ weak, though, and he is grieving. Tony fervently wishes he could cry. Not for Howard, perhaps, but for his mum.

“All right,” he says into the silence, mouth dry and head aching, “let’s go.” He does not care whether they have decided anything yet, if anyone is coming with him or not. If Mrs. Rhodes is expecting him, he is not going to disappoint her. Rhodey’s parents are the only adults – not counting Jarvis and Ana – who have ever treated him like an equal, not like someone they could exploit, whose name or money they could use for their own advantage. When he thinks of their Philadelphia house, he has a sense of home filling him, which he has never had for any of the Stark properties.

“Hold your horses, kiddo. We can leave tomorrow at the earliest,” Bucky intercedes, somehow talking of _we_ as if he had never protested in the first place. “I’ve got work tonight.”

“And you should probably take a shower first and eat something,” Steve advises, taking him in critically. “Maybe sleep another couple of hours.”

Tony looks from one of them to the other, wondering whether he has been somehow transported into an alternate universe where people are kind to him, just like that.

“All right,” he repeats his acquiescence. “Shower, food, bed. Beat me.”

Then he pulls his coffee close and hands himself over to their mercy. They are getting him home. For now, that is all that counts.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated.  
> Happy holidays!


End file.
